


A General Rule

by TeddyLaCroix (ReadyPlayerZero)



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Bus Driver Phil, M/M, Pre-Slash, S.H.I.E.L.D. Clint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-10
Updated: 2014-08-10
Packaged: 2018-02-12 13:37:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2111916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReadyPlayerZero/pseuds/TeddyLaCroix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are a lot of things Clint does not do. Riding New York City buses is one of them... until he meets Phil Coulson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A General Rule

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written back in December '13, this was meant to be a short five-part story. Eight months later I still haven't even started a part two... oh, well. Have some pre-slash.

Meeting Phil Coulson was pure chance, really.

As a general rule, Clint avoided buses when he could. The idea of being stuck in a big, moving, metal contraption outside of his control just didn't sit right with him. It was his inner control freak more than anything, but seeing as how that inner control freak had kept him alive this far, he was pretty inclined to listen to it. It was one thing to be in a car; whether he was behind the wheel or not he knew he could take over if he needed to. A car was small, no big deal, easily manoeuvrable. But a bus? A bus full of cranky New Yorkers?

Yeah, no. He preferred to walk, bike, or hell, hail a taxi if he was truly desperate.

Unfortunately—or fortunately, as the case was—he had both arms loaded down with brown paper bags, he was two miles from home, every taxi he'd seen in the last half-hour had zipped past with a full load of passengers, and it was thirty-three degrees and dropping.

Not for the first time, he cursed himself for deciding to do grocery shopping today. After just getting back from a two-month-long mission, however, he'd known that his apartment was pretty pathetically barren even for him, and he was _really_ damn sick of living off of nutrition bars and trail mix and jerky. He wanted a full meal, made the way he liked it, using his goddamn kitchen that he'd only had the opportunity to enjoy maybe three times since moving in.

His goddamn kitchen that was still two miles away, and in the span of time he spent ranting to himself for choosing to move to New York (or for S.H.I.E.L.D. choosing to set up HQ in New York) he was pretty sure it had dropped another three degrees.

Could he walk it? No question about it. Did he _want_ to walk it, with the bus pulling up to the stop just as he happened to reach it? A bus that promised heating, judging by the flare of warmth that hit him when the door opened, the mild, middle-aged driver sitting inside eyeing him expectantly with the single cocked eyebrow that silently asked, _Well? You getting on or not?_

Of course he didn't want to walk it. And hell, he even had exact change.

He got on.

Even in New York, crime on public transportation was not as bad as Hollywood liked to depict it. Oh, sure, there were petty problems all the time - pickpocketing, harassment, drunks - but nothing like that 1994 Keanu Reeves film. A bus was a pretty stupid place to stage a hold-up, honestly; the criminal was just as trapped as the riders, and it wasn't as if anyone was going anywhere fast. Besides, how much dough could possibly be found on a stinking bus at nine at night from a couple of welfare moms dragging dinner and three kids home, a barely conscious college kid finishing up a Plaid Pantry shift, a few half-drunk old men with walkers and canes, some teenagers returning from the mall, and Clint?

And yet, some criminals really were just that dumb. Apparently.

Clint wasn't worried. Why would he worry? A level five S.H.I.E.L.D. agent could hold his own against some asshat with a semiautomatic from the neighbourhood gun shop, and even if it wasn't considered good practice to draw attention to himself among civilians, he wasn't going to sit there and let everyone—self included—get robbed, either. At least he got enough of a paycheck to deal with it; he wasn't convinced the welfare moms, college kid, drunkards and teens (okay, maybe the teens) could.

Natasha made fun of him sometimes for being a softie. But hell, he'd lived on that end long enough to know how much it sucked, and how much every dollar, every can of beef soup, and every moment of feeling safe counted. It wasn't something he could be bothered to feel embarrassed over.

He wasn't worried, but he _was_ cold and hungry and getting pretty damn grouchy. A grouchy Clint tended to make for an _offensive_ Clint, and an offensive Clint tended to kick ass or get his ass kicked, depending on who he was mouthing off at. So he was fully prepared to get into a fight one way or another, regardless who started it.

This time, he didn't have a chance to find out.

He was just setting his bags down at his feet when the bus lurched to a stop. The front doors opened, and Mr. Asshat turned toward the driver, brandishing his stupid—what even was that, a C-9? Okay, fine, could be worse, but talk about being a stereotype.

(Clint maybe had a _thing_ about guns. His _thing_ maybe was a vanity _thing_ where individuality mattered as much as accuracy and efficiency. But come on, he used a _bow_ for a living; breaking the mold was a given.)

Said driver—said mild, middle-aged driver Clint hadn't even given a second thought to, whose eyebrows were now furrowed in exasperation instead of cocked impatiently—hit Mr. Asshat in the side with a small, flat, handheld device that made him yelp and fall straight out the open doors.

Clint caught the telltale yellow markings on the device just before the driver pocketed it again and stood. He disappeared down the steps for a few moments, which were accompanied by the sound of a thud and the crunch of icy slush, before reappearing up the steps and taking his seat again. "Sorry, everyone; you're going to have to get out here until the next bus," he announced in a completely bored tone, as if tasing a robber off his bus were an everyday occurrence.

Then again, what did Clint know? He didn't take the damn bus much. Maybe for this guy it was.

Gathering his bags again, he waited for everyone else to shuffle off before following at the rear. Not one to normally think one way or another about his height, he was grateful for it not now as it let him watch the driver over the heads of several passengers before him. The way they bid him good-night rather than grumbling at the unexpected change in plans or even appearing particularly frightened seemed to imply some degree of familiarity and security, so he assumed they were largely regulars; it wasn't until the person just before him, however, that he realised how much.

"Hope the cops don't keep you too long tonight, Phil."

"Thank you, Betsy. Give Harold my regards," the driver returned with a smile that was a touch warmer than simply polite. "Sorry for the mess."

Betsy scoffed indignantly, lifting her chin a bit. "When I was a child, we walked six miles to school in two feet of snow. This ain't _nothing_ ," she sniffed, although there was laughter at the edge of her voice. Swatting good-naturedly at "Phil's" arm as he chuckled at her, she waved as she stumbled off the bus.

That was when Clint realised he was alone with the driver now. He also realised he had not actually thought of anything to say to him, but he wasn't sure he could stand in the aisle much longer before Phil suspected him of being a creep and took him down next.

Or, well. Tried to, anyway. He was fairly certain he could out-manouevre a bus driver with a questionably legal concealed weapon. Most states didn't give a shit about tasers, not considering them to be legitimate firearms, but New York was one of—what, five?—that did.

Tipping his head, Clint shot him a cheeky grin. "Nice taser," he commented instead.

Phil looked at him, warm smile replaced by the boredom of earlier. This time, however, Clint knew better than to believe he was as bland as his presentation, and he took a moment to observe the laugh lines at the corners of his unimpressed eyes, the neatly-pressed MTA uniform despite the time of night, and the surprisingly strong arms (and as an archer, he was a connoisseur of nice arms, thank you) stretching out beneath the short-sleeved (in _winter_?) shirt.

"Nice eyes."

Blinking, Clint raised an eyebrow, wondering if the driver were remarking on the fact that he recognised the device he used from the back of the bus or if he was being hit on. Middle-aged and balding men didn't ordinarily do it for him, not when he worked with someone like _Natasha_ , but... come to think of it, spontaneous acts of violence and casual efficiency sort of did.

Sort of _really_ did.

Clint opened his mouth to belatedly reply when Phil flashed him the same small, pleasant smile he'd given Betsy. "Don't overthink it."

As someone trained by both his employer and his upbringing to be wary of people who could flash on a completely different personality like that in the blink of an eye some part of Clint wanted to be alarmed. No, check that; some small, background part of him _was_ alarmed. Natasha was the master of personality changes, after all, and she was the scariest person he knew.

The rest of him, however, suddenly felt oddly warm and reassured.

He only noticed after he'd stepped off the bus that he was smiling. And that he'd stepped off the bus. And that the robber was now lying unconscious on his side in the roadside slush, wrists bound behind his back with fucking paracord, what the hell?

 _Yeah,_ he thought as he watched the bus leave to pull off the side of the road, still feeling a little dazed from the encounter, _gonna be taking the bus a lot more now._

**Author's Note:**

> Hi. Let's be [friends](http://teddylacroix.tumblr.com). ♥


End file.
